Yeah, that’s what Scott deserves.
I can feel tears sliding down my cheeks. Good. I won’t have any makeup left to wash off by morning.
Stupid Scott.
Stupid fucking Scott.
I can’t believe he did this.
I start sobbing a few seconds later.
There’s nothing funny about how I feel.
Every muscle in my body tenses at the same time as agony spikes into me. My stomach clenches and I try to fold into myself. I want to disappear. Sadness and hurt fight it out inside me. Confusion crashes into me. My world is now upside down.
This is going to be a long night.
The only thing I have to help me through it is my music.
I hope my car battery doesn’t run out before morning.
RUN 2
Chapter 26
KELLAN
WHAM!
I take a hard shot to the ribs, but block most of it with the side of my elbow. A stiff right hand bullets toward my chin, but we’re in such close quarters, my left fist deflects it when I launch my arm to the heavens. It connects with the edge of his jaw.
He staggers back in the sand and shakes his head.
“Want more of that shit?” I grin around my mouth guard.
My good buddy Dubs Moses spits out his mouth piece and holds it in his gloved fingers, “Damn, Kellan. You got lead in your glove?”
Anybody else would’ve been out cold if I hit them that hard. Dubs isn’t anybody.
I chide, “Dude, don’t be a pussy. You’re still on your feet.” I don’t mention that my ribs are pounding where he connected a second ago.
For the past hour, we’ve been sparring on the soft sand of Venice Beach. We’re both sweaty and tired. It’s early morning, the sun is barely awake, and we’re both wearing bright red pads on our fists, feet, and heads.
If we didn’t wear the pads, the lifeguards would’ve called the beach cops and had us hauled off for fighting. The pads make it obvious we’re just practicing. Plus, we know the lifeguards on duty this morning. They let us stay. If the beach was actually crowded, they’d ask us to stop sparring or do it someplace else. Since it’s empty, we got in plenty of punching.
After I catch my breath, I say, “Ready for more punishment?”
Dubs grins, “Careful, son. You get all cocky and your shit gonna get knocked out.”
“You wish.”
Dubs is a good buddy of mine. He wears his hair in inch long Afro twists, which at the moment sprout from the top of his red head gear. He likes to tell people his ebony skin is Africa black. I’m not quite sure what he means, but his skin is super dark and he says it makes him more mysterious, which always makes me laugh. He plays bass in a Reggae band and I like to give him shit because he doesn’t have dreads. I call him a Reggae poser but he always tells me you don’t have to be Rasta to be Reggae.
Dubs also freelances as a personal trainer. His impressive muscled physique is his calling card and draws in plenty of clients. Most of them are bored rich women who live in Santa Monica or Venice and love his dangerously flirty personality. I’m always telling him he should charge ten times what he does and fuck them instead.
Like the brothers in the band Bad Brains, Dubs has a deep interest in a wide range of music, from jazz to funk to hard rock and metal. And he’s damn good on bass in all those styles. Me and him have jammed tons of times but it never pans out into us forming a long-term band. I can’t blame him. His Reggae band actually gets paid for playing shows, unlike most metal bands we know.
Aside from music, the thing Dubs and I talk about the most is women.
Still holding his mouth piece in hand, he smudges sweat from his face with the side of his elbow and asks, “You bang anybody last night?”
I chuckle, “You stalling? Too tired to fight more?” I put my mouth piece back in and dance in the sand while circling my fists Rocky Balboa style.
He laughs, “What I tell you about gettin’ cocky, Rocky?”
I jeer, “Throw something, bitch.”
He puts in his mouth piece and we hammer away at each other for another five minutes. We’re both exhausted and our punches are getting slower. At one point, I throw a wide right. He dodges it and I stumble into the sand, rolling smoothly onto my back.
I could get up, but I don’t feel like it. I grunt, “I’m done.”
He drops his ass into the sand next to me and leans back on his hands, his legs outstretched. He asks, “Call it?”
“Yup.”
We smack hands and I sit up.
I ask, “You bang anybody last night?”
“Band practice.”
“I thought you guys had groupies at all your rehearsals waiting to suck your dicks afterwards.”
“Naw, man. They suck dick while we playin’.”
I laugh heartily. “Now I know why all you Reggae bass players wear your guitars so high. I always thought it looked fucking lame.”
“Easy access, son,” Dubs chuckles.
“Dude, the only women at your rehearsals are your moms.”
He frowns, “You talkin’ shit ’bout my momma?”
I laugh. “You know I love your mom.”
“All right then.”
“Cuz she loves my dick,” I blurt lewdly, “especially when I give it to her hard and fast.”
“You did not just say you is fuckin’ my momma!”
“I think I did,” I grin and spring to my feet. I sprint as fast as I can down the beach, heading toward the hard sand touching the water.
Dubs is after me like lightning. We pound sand for about fifty yards, shoulder to shoulder, trying to outpace each other. It’s an even race until we both run out of gas.
We slow to a stop and we’re both huffing and puffing, bent over, hands on our knees, for at least a minute.
“I smoked your ass, son!” Dubs shouts as he straightens up, clenching a fist in my face.
“Ha!” I blurt. “The only thing you can smoke is herb, my man.”
“True that,” Dubs chuckles. “You hungry?”
“Yeah. Let’s get some food on the boardwalk.”
We walk back to our pile of stuff and shove our pads into duffle bags. I drink the last half of my big water bottle in five long swallows.
Before drinking from his own water bottle, Dubs asks, “Who you nailin’ tonight?”
“Probably that chick Savannah who gave me her number last night.”
We walk across the sand toward the buildings on the boardwalk.
Dubs asks, “She the one you saw play at The Cobra?”
“Naw, that was Victory.”
“Shit, playah, does every girl you ball have a stripper name?”
“Usually,” I grin.
“When you nailin’ Victory?”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t have her number.”
“Yeah, but you know what band she in, right? Track her down that way.”
I shake my head, “She got kicked out. And I don’t know her last name.”
Dubs laughs, “You never know their last names.”
I snicker, “True that.”
“Did you Facebook her?”
I nod, “I couldn’t find shit.”
“You think Victory her real name?”
I laugh, “Do you?”
He chuckles, “Naw. Probably Sally or Mavis or some shit.”
We walk to a Mexican taqueria on the Venice boardwalk and buy breakfast burritos. We eat them sitting on top of a cement picnic table facing the beach, watching the surfers slide along the waves as the rising sun warms our backs.
I chew a bite of my burrito silently.
Dubs asks, “You thinkin’ about that stripper girl, ain’t you?”
“Victory?” I huff, “Yeah.”
“Forget about her. There’s a hundred other Hollywood hotties waiting to climb your stripper pole tonight, dawg.”
I snicker, “Yeah.”
But I can’t stop thinking about Victory.
I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Chapter 27
VICTORY
I scream for my life.
“OOOWWW!!!”
Someone stabs an icepick into the side of my neck, jolting me awake.
Pure terror floods my veins.
I’m being attacked in my car.
I never should’ve slept here.
FUCKING SCOTT!!!
A second icepick stabs the other side of my neck and I’m wide awake behind the wheel of my Altima. My arms flail at my attacker as I sit bolt upright in my seat and scream again.
“OOOOWWWW!!!!”
Where’s my rainbow rape knife?! I must’ve dropped it when I was asleep!! I need to find it so I can start stabbing my attacker before I’m dead!!
Wait.
Clarity sinks in now that I’m fully awake.
It’s not icepicks. It’s my neck. It’s locked up like a bank vault. I must have slept on it all wrong.
I drop into my seat and jolts shoot from my shoulders to my scalp. My neck throbs like crazy. I never knew you could get cramps in your scalp.
Fucking Scott.
Wow, I can’t move without more shooting pain. I do my best to take in my surroundings only using my eyes.
The blue sky is bright overhead and the sun is up, but this part of the Hollywood Hills is still in cool blue shadows. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham! plays quietly on the radio.
Ha, ha, DJ Universe.
Good thing George Michael didn’t drain my car battery.
I don’t know what time I finally conked out last night. I cried over my breakup with Scott and the band for hours while listening to sappy lovesick pop songs. Thoughts of Kellan constantly got in the way of my grieving. I don’t know if that made things worse or better. Either way, I was torn between the north and south poles of pop: Boys Boys Boys on the top of the world (thank you, Lady Gaga and Kellan) and Heartbreak Hotel on the bottom (thank you, Elvis Presley, but no thanks to you, Scott).
Anyway, none of that matters now. Scott and Kellan are both behind me for good. I’m starting a new chapter in my life.
My name isn’t Victory Payne for nothing.
I remember that I never washed my makeup off last night. I need to check my mascara. I must be a raccoon at this point.
When I reach up to adjust the rearview mirror, my neck sings with exquisite pain as the icepicks go crazy.
I drop my arm and sit frozen in place once again. I’m afraid to move and start the icepicks stabbing again.
But I need to move. It’ll loosen things up. A walk will help. I carefully reach over and open the car door. More stabbing pain, but I get the door open and step gingerly onto the street in my fake Uggs and PJ’s.
I remove my leather jacket with infinite care and drop it into the car.
Today is going to be hot. The morning is already warm.
I nearly lock myself out of my car when I remember my keys are still in the ignition. Do I leave them and risk having someone come along and steal my car? After the way my Altima treated my neck last night, I don’t know that I care.
Screw my keys.
I hope some joy rider wrecks my car.
I slam the door shut, which is a mistake. The icepicks go to work on my right shoulder.
I wince as the pain bites into me.
The only solution is to start walking.
I take a few tentative steps away from my car when I remember my Fender is in the trunk with all my clothes. And my amps are in the seats. Shit. Everything I own is in my car.
I go back and carefully open the door. My first instinct is to lean inside and take the keys out, but I’m afraid if I do the glassy muscles in my neck will shatter into a thousand pieces, causing my head to fall off. Not that that sounds like a bad thing at the moment. Sudden death seems preferable to the pain I’m feeling. My entire back, neck, and shoulders are slabs of hard clay leaking acid into my body. If I don’t start moving, I’m going to lock up on the spot like a statue. Birds will roost on my head and poop in my hair.
Time to move.
I lean into the car reaching for my keys and my shoulder threatens to lock. That’s not gonna work. I have to sit down like I’m getting in. When my butt drops into the seat, lightning bolts shoot from the base of my spine to the crown of my head.
What a way to start my day.
I twist my keys free and carefully climb out of my car. After locking it, I walk old lady slow down the street.
The houses are all expensive looking. So are the SUVs and cars in the driveways.
Luckily it’s Saturday morning, or else people would be on their way to work, walking out to their cars and looking at me funny. I’m so glad I changed out of my black leather rock & roll assassin costume last night. Otherwise, I’m sure someone would think I was a hooker and call the cops. I’d be picked up for pandering and likely spend the day downtown. Even if that didn’t happen, I never would’ve been able to walk in my hooker heels with all the icepicks in my back. The fake Uggs are way better. So what if I’m strolling through a strange neighborhood in my pajamas?
Two kids in red and blue soccer uniforms come running out of one of the houses, followed by a mom in a tight fitting pastel pink velvet jogging suit and platinum blonde hair. The mom is a Hollywood cliche. I can’t decide if she dresses this way to be ironic or if she takes herself seriously.
“Hey, mom,” the little girl says, “That lady is wearing pajamas outside! Doesn’t she know pajamas are only for inside?”
The little girl isn’t helping my mood any. I flash a fake smile at her and think to myself, Your mom is wearing pajamas too, you little weasel!
The boy asks, “Mom, why is she walking like a zombie?”
“Don’t say that, Tyler,” the mom chastises. She glances at me like I might be a kidnapper.
Tyler asks, “Should I get Dad’s gun and shoot her, in case she’s a zombie?”
I’m never having kids.
“Tyler!” the mom shouts. “That’s not nice! She’s not a zombie. Now, get in the car. We’re going to be late for your game.”
“Mom, why is she wearing clown makeup?” the girl asks.
“I’m with the circus!” I shout angrily.
Tyler frowns, “What circus? Is there a circus in town? Mom, can we go?”
The mom hustles Tyler and his sister into the back of their SUV. She gives me a concerned look, “Are you okay, honey?”
I grimace, “Slept in my car.”
She frowns like she’s skeptical.
“My neck cramped up,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
She walks toward me and stops a few feet away. “Do you need anything? Are you in trouble?”
Her obvious concern belies her plastic looks and catches me off guard. It all comes pouring out when I say, “My boyfriend dumped me last night and kicked me out of our apartment and our band. I don’t have any place to go.”
“Mom!” Tyler leans out of the backseat window. “We’re going to be late!”
“Hold on a second, Tyler,” she barks, then turns to me. “Do you need help?”
I smear tears from my cheeks and cough when my neck muscles slice together painfully. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
She’s so genuinely concerned, I can’t help myself. I say, “I really need to pee.”
“Do you want to come inside and use the bathroom?”
“Are you sure?” I say nervously. I’ll pee in someone’s bushes if I have to.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Mom!” Tyler shouts. “We’re going to be late!”
“Hush up, Tyler! Your game can wait!”
“No it can’t! If we’re late, I don’t get to play!”
“Tyler!” the mom shouts, ending all argument.
Tyler sighs loudly and his head sinks back into the SUV.
The mom looks at me, “My name is Stephanie. You can call me Steph
.” She extends her hand, tentatively at first, like maybe I have the plague. “Oh, what am I doing. You’re fine.” She practically grabs my hand from my side and shakes it.
“Ow!” I wince.
She grimaces. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Embarrassed, I say, “Like I said, I slept in my car. My neck is cramped up really bad.”
Steph nods, “That’s the worst. I hate sleeping in the car. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager. What’s your name again?”
“It’s Victory. My name is Victory.”
“That’s a nice name,” she smiles. “Let’s get you inside.”
“Mom!” Tyler shouts, “I’m going to miss the game!”
“Hush up, Tyler! You and your sister wait in the car.”
Steph leads me into the house, one arm around my shoulders like I’m a decrepit old hag. At the moment, I feel like one.
The two story house is professionally decorated. Although everything looks expensive, it’s also inviting. Wow, when can I move in? I hope those kids realize how good they have it. Maybe Steph can adopt me and I can be their big sister. I’ll teach them music in exchange for room and board.
Steph leads me to a guest bathroom. The sink is marble and rests on top of a curly spiral of iron. Fancy golden decorative candles sit on the window sill above the sink. There’s a bidet next to the toilet. A flat screen TV mounted on the wall faces them both. I’ve never seen a TV in a bathroom before.
There’s a knock on the door. Through the door, Steph says, “I brought you a clean towel to wash up.”
I open the door and smile at her.
She’s holding a fluffy towel thicker than a down comforter. “Will this work?”
I take it from her, “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“I have facial cleanser in the cabinet next to the sink. It’ll be gentle on your skin.” She examines my face carefully, “I wish I had skin like yours, Victory.” She shakes her head. “You can’t be more than eighteen,” she smiles.
I do my best to grin, “I’m twenty-two, but thanks.”
“Well, get busy. Otherwise I think Tyler might go looking for his dad’s gun so he can protect me from zombies.” She chuckles and is about to pull the door closed.
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 11
